


The Shape in the Glass is Me (& You)

by wrothmothking



Category: Prey (Video Game 2017)
Genre: A little?, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Autistic Morgan, Biting, Character Death, Evil Morgan, M/M, Mirror Sex, Morgan Yu Is A Typhon, Personality Drift, Power Dynamics, Semi-verbal Morgan, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-21
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-18 01:00:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29601432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wrothmothking/pseuds/wrothmothking
Summary: Morgan couldn't find Alex's keycard for the escape pod; his only option for survival is Dahl.
Relationships: Walther Dahl/Morgan Yu
Kudos: 3





	The Shape in the Glass is Me (& You)

Morgan is taking too long.

Dahl sifts through the cameras, finding him scavenging the office across the bridge. He gives him a moment to gather his ill-gotten gains from the cracked safe—he can expend a bit of his limited patience in the name of loot. But then Morgan notices the military operator spying on him-

And hacks it.

Dahl frowns as his screen changes to another's view. For control to be wrested from Kaspar so easily, neither of them the wiser...He pours through the feeds, counting on one hand the number unmolested. Mere moments ago, there had been thirteen. They were scattered throughout Shuttle Bay—how was he reaching them so fast?

Another drops out of contact.

The station cameras are of lesser quality, the picture fuzzy as he zooms in on Morgan's form. The stream stutters, twice. Buffers. Morgan is crouched over a corpse laid on the pipes. Then he stands, black not-sand gathering around him in a pseudo-cloak—Dahl nearly turns away, annoyed Morgan would intrigue him, waste his time, only to be skewered by a typhon at the time of their meeting—and in a blink he is stalking up the stairs to the lift, a ghostly afterimage floating where he'd stood.

“That's not Morgan,” he whispers.

The operator hovering over his shoulder replies in Kaspar's voice, “Why would a typhon assume his identity?”

“Escape.” But why were the others trying so hard to kill him, then? Why were they not also disguising themselves as crew?

It was just the three of them left. Him, Alex, and 'Morgan'. He'd been so surprised, returning to a station uninhabited. Hardly anyne left for him to kill, and those, he'd sicced 'Morgan' on. The show had been worth taking a backseat to the action, the typhon changing between pistol and shotgun as range necessitated, using his propulsion system to great effect in evading the telepath's attacks, his feet touching the ground only after he'd made himself the sole survivor. Beautiful, in a way.

Maybe this false Morgan knew he was watched. Maybe he'd hidden his inhuman abilities purposefully, waiting to make sense of whatever trap Dahl'd planned for him to shove in his face his terrible human weakness.

Because he does sense the impending betrayal. Likely realized the plot at Dahl's first honeyed word. Why else would he waste time securing the area with the promise of his race's goal so tantalizingly close?

Of course, since this creature is not truly Morgan, that makes him no longer Dahl's problem. Rather, he may be punished later if the truth of this thing is found out; there's no denying his worth as a specimen.

It's logic. If Dahl had privately resented the order to kill the Yu heirs, remembering fondly Morgan's icy glares and fantastic ass, well, there remains no doubt in his nor his employer's mind he would strangle him to death with his bare hands should William order such. He's well-versed in compartmentalizing.

The door chimes. He'd found a keycard.

Dahl spins, pistol aimed center-mass. Morgan cocks his head, otherwise frozen in the doorway. His eyes focus on the extensive scarring marring Dahl's flesh as though taking them in for the first time. (Dahl feels no embarassment to be studied so; show-casing evidence of a violent past on his skin has proven useful in his field of work.)

After another moment passes wherein the typhon does nothing but stare at his face, somehow fearful, Dahl relaxes a fraction. But he doesn't lower the gun. His sole remaining operator hums anxiously beside him, optic shining friendly blue 'til he gives the order—or falls.

“Been busy, have you? I don't like to be kept waiting.”

The typhon opens his mouth as though to speak, but all that comes through is an odd grunting.

He tries again, voice dusty yet spine-chillingly familiar, “Are you angry?”

Dahl frowns. He's lived while others have died, often at his hands, because he was better. If this thing is to kill him, it is because _he's_ better. There's no room for fury in that. Survival of the fittest, as they say. So, he answers, “No.”

When he offers nothing further, the typhon, now scowling, prompts, “You promised transport.”

“I promised transport for Morgan Yu. You are not Morgan Yu.”

Either way he won't be getting off the station, but Dahl decides to pretend it matters. Damnable curiosity.

'Morgan' stiffens. “Why do you say that?”

“You killed all those people. Morgan was cold, but he was never wasteful. And,” Dahl narrows his eyes, “I've seen your parlour tricks.”

It takes a minute for him to puzzle out his meaning, his thinking clearly visible on his face in a way terribly unlike the original copy.

“Neuromods cause aggression. If you use too many, too much.” He stares at his own gloved palm, a swirl of black not-sand surfacing to coil leisurely— _lovingly_ —around his fingers. “Typhon contamination.”

The splintered sentences don't inspire confidence, but Dahl ascertains what he's saying, and trusts the veracity of it. It explains much of what he's seen, and the risks of this contamination accounts for the extreme orders Dahl's received; more cost-effective to kill the humans and human-passing and secure the rest. They, at least, shouldn't have the intelligence to escape through more sophisticated measures than brute force, thus making long-term containment plausible.

He wonders if this means he needs to _try_ to kill Morgan after all. Regrettable.

“Why do you want to go to Earth?”

Morgan shrugs. “I don't. I just don't want to be here.” He looks aside, staring through Talos walls at an unknown evil only he can yet behold. “I— _we_ need to get out of here. Fast.”

His fright turns swift to anger at the whatever-it-is, his hand clenching into a fist, his mouth pulling back into a bestial snarl, his eyes garnering the now-familiar glow of a phantom's. But without a target, the darkness fades fast.

Dahl no longer wonders at the trail of bodies Morgan's left behind. This fear-borne rage driving him to survive has pitted the universe and all its inhabitants against him, and anyone barring escape—or appearing to bar escape—is torn asunder without care. His utility as a pilot is the only reason Dahl still breathes—had Morgan found neural mapping for flying a shuttle, he would be dead, too.

A perfectly mercenary outlook. He might like this new Morgan better.

He wants more details, but Morgan seems strangely exhausted by their brief conversation. Pushing would be unwise.

“My allegiance is to your father.”

Morgan tilts his head with a frown, his disdain for the protestation clear.

William Yu is the most powerful man in the world. He will not survive betraying him.

He will not survive denying Morgan, either.

Logic demands he yield to the immediate threat staring him down a mere five feet away. All he can hope is that William possesses the sentimentality to turn off the stream rather than watch Dahl's confrontation with his son—or, that he hasn't deigned to pick up Dahl's offer to begin with.

Alex yet lives, but Kaspar is capable enough. He is one human man, never as capable as his younger brother in any sphere. Never a threat.

He scoffs. “Very well, Doctor Yu. Let's get out of here.”

Morgan ducks his head, as though uncomfortable with the formality, or perhaps the larger identity inherent in the weight of his other's title unnerves him. Under his breath, he mumbles, “It's 'Morgan'.”

Dahl nods his assent, and otherwise doesn't comment.

Matter settled, Morgan enters the room properly and sets about looting the place, even going so far as to turn his back on Dahl. He's almost tempted to shoot. Alas, if neutralizing this thing was so easy, he would've been felled by the turrets.

So, finally, he lowers his gun. The rustling of his holster has Morgan glancing back, a genuine smile tugging at his lips. It's an expression he's never before seen on those familiar features. Dahl observes him as he listens, avidly, to a transcribe recording without a sliver of guilt or pity despite his significant contributions to the losses on this station, direct and indirect. Like he's listening to a story on radio.

What a condundrum. He best figure him out quick, lest he want to chance being killed once they reach their destination.

Morgan finds an apple, munches happily as he searches the nearby drawers.

“So you can eat. Good to know.”

The observation seems one Morgan's not considered; he pauses in his chewing, blinks, before nodding distractedly in Dahl's general direction and resuming his snacking. Seems, too, he doesn't realize the incongruity of his, ah, _condition_.

Maybe taking him back to Earth is a selfishly idiotic choice, but Dahl has no safe houses off-world—no one does. A mere three are (presumably) unknown to TranStar. They should go somewhere isolated, certainly, but close enough to some measure of civilization for the typhon not to feel trapped.

Knowingly or not, Morgan comes up on his bad side, stopping a half-step away with an expectant look. Well within Dahl's personal bubble; if he concentrates, he can feel the ghost of Morgan's breathing on his neck.

“Ready, th-”

A howl.

Dahl doesn't notice cutting himself off, doesn't notice cowering from that horrible noise in shameful, instinctive fear—not until that sound cuts off. But he's been infected. The plauge is inside him. He's lost, hopelessly lost, he's not felt this way since he was a boy-

A misshapen claw reaches for him. He doesn't think; he shoots.

The last two minutes pass by him in a rush. He barely returns to the present in time to dodge the half dozen kinetic blasts blazing into the small room, pressing himself tight against the left wall. Morgan pants beside the window, apparently having been blown back by an attack Dahl'd missed.

“What is it?!”

“Nightmare!”

A purple shroud envelops the creature—the nightmare—and it shrieks again, this time at a pain all its own. It stumbles back, falling off the bridge in its haste to get away. Morgan chases after, shotgun clenched in his hands so hard it creaks, and Dahl...

Dahl follows, curses tumbling out his mouth.

By the time he's out the doorway, the nightmare's recovered—the psychic shock is still visibly active, purple streaks flaring as it's renewed, but no longer does it flee, lumbering after Morgan as he jumps and climbs around it, deft fingers working the trigger, mind contorting the fabric of reality as he pleases. A physical wall, the nightmare soaks up the damage without pause—did it lure them out here? Dahl shakes himself. That's a question for after it's dead. Or, better: never.

It stands on two skinny legs like a person, a grotesque image for the massive crab-like upper half. Dahl shoots these legs, hoping to disable it further.

One disintegrates into smoke. He reloads-

The nightmare turns on him, its great maw opening wide. Dahl rolls out of its path, losing his gun in the process. Fire erupts around him, unnatural, and scorching. The flames feed on the nightmare, but it cares little for the agony with prey dancing in front of it. Two seconds, two steps, and it's upon him once more.

He lunges right, then throws his body left, cartwheeling passed its bulk. His feet touch the ground with dull thuds, shocks of pain rocketing up his legs in sync with the pulses in his arms. But he doesn't waste a second. With a running start, he launches himself at the thing's back, grunting as its corrosive matter burns his skin. One hand grabs at its not-hair, his feet scrabbling for purchase and finding it. The other-

There is a knife. Sharp, shaped like a tooth.

He plunges it into the monster, muscling through layers of typhon flesh until meeting the limitations of his shoulder joint.

It's trying to reach him. It can't. He clings upon it like a tick, unyielding, for it is his own survival hanging in the balance. The knife sinks impossibly deeper.

Morgan yells, wordless. Dahl can't verify his position; he's not even had the room to notice the other's actions these past minutes.

The beast under him crumbles. Its flesh begins melting away, fast. He tries to jerk out his knife—he needs to control or lessen his fall so he doesn't crack his skull open—but it's stuck!

“Damn it,” he hisses. Oh, he'll have it back shortly, but Dahl despises going any measure of time unarmed.

So, he lets go. He springs back, momentum carrying him back towards the scant half-yard of security station roof. If he's lucky, impacting it will half his fall, maybe flip him so he's not doubling traumas to one body part.

And then Morgan is there, half-crouched over its lip, arms held out as though to-

Morgan does it. He catches Dahl in his arms. Life's turned into a romantic fucking comedy.

He gets to his feet swift as he can.

“So, leaving, are we?”

Morgan shrugs.

“Thought we were in a _fucking hurry_.”

Again, Morgan shrugs, jumping clean off the building to the floor. “We should harvest the typhon. For neuromods.”

Privately, Dahl thinks he'd rather not inject any more of those things into him—he may be a tad jealous of Morgan's powers, and he won't be extracting his own neuromods willingly, but.

The Morgan he once knew is too far gone to be salvaged. Dahl shudders at the idea of being so soundly replaced.

Erased.

With inhuman strength, Morgan tears into the remaining typhon material with his bear hands, placing the organs he extracts in his stuffed-full bag, uncaring of the ghastly black liquid trailing over everything. Including food.

It inspires Dahl to look at himself. The stuff's all over him, his hands, his suit, his boots. He touches his beard, finds it moist with the alien substance.

Could this change him? What if it gets in his mouth, in his bloodstream? Technically, he already has it, but at what point does it become too much?

He hadn't even noticed, swallowed by adrenaline as he'd been.

Morgan rises. He does not head to the recycler.

“What's the hold up?” Dahl prods.

He gets no reply. Evidently, Morgan no longer cares to speak with him.

Well, tough shit.

When Morgan moves for the stairs, Dahl dogs his steps.

“Shy all of a sudden, Morgan?”

The name leaves an odd taste in his mouth, despite his using it far more often than the formal address. Probably because now he's been not merely given permission, but _asked_ to refer to him by first name, looming identity crisis or no. It's lost that mocking edge daring him to do something about it. Daring him to _try_.

(If, in dreams of day and dreams of night, Dahl imagined those confrontations leading to some under-the covers (or against-the-wall, or over-the-desk, or behind-a-tree) action, it was merely idle fancy, a combination of stale boredom and periodic surges of his oft-dormant sex drive.)

All of that history, largely negative or objectifying as it was, has disappeared. Only a spectre of it remains, and Dahl, hardly one to tolerate useless hauntings, shoves it to a back corner of his mind dusty with cobwebs. Morgan Yu is dead, and Morgan Yu is alive, and such things have been irrelevant for nearly a year. The expiration date has passed.

The recycler spits out exotic material. Dahl crosses his arms over his chest, impatient. Irritated, too, for being so soundly ignored.

Morgan ignores his bad mood, looking to him with positive familiarty. Dahl doesn't trust it, but he reasons there are stranger things about him than pack-bonding fast with the first organic he's encountered and not slain. (Yet.)

The station trembles.

Dahl hisses, steadying himself with a palm on Morgan's shoulder; annoyingly, _he_ rides the quake with grace.

Warmth permeates the outer layer of Morgan's suit, radiating from an internal temperature instantly recognizable as higher than a human's ought to be. Typhon ran cold. Does this distinction make him more human, or less, his fever an effect of his body struggling to subdue the burgeoning alien infection?

Because he is not a dog, he remains where he is as Morgan next travels to the fabricator. How many more of those blasted things could he actually need? Are any of them going to be of use if he makes them tardy for their own escape? Weary of questions, Dahl-

Pinging. From the airlock.

“What now?” he gripes, altering the course of his wandering to suitable cover. Three options come to him, none he could expect to be friendly: TranStar personnel or company-hired intermediaries here to secure Talos, particularly smart typhon, or staff they've somehow missed.

This third scenario he doesn't assign much weight. The typhon, including Morgan, don't leave survivors, and neither the station's security systems nor his operators have found any evidence suggesting more.

Nevertheless, the figure exiting the airlock, pulling off her helm, is Danielle Sho.

Her wide, anxious eyes scan the area, failing to pinpoint Dahl as he crouches on the stairs, peering over the lip whenever instinct bids. He wants to make sure she's alone, lest he scare off accomplices hidden nearby or, perhaps, en route to meet her.

But she doesn't pull out her transcribe, and she doesn't call out. Operators meander through the air. The automated voice of a turret blandly informs her she is not typhon-contaminated. This sector is definitively clear, and still she hesitates. Maybe she knows the aliens aren't the only ones she need fear.

So after a moment's consideration, Dahl steps out.

Chief Sho freezes. Her hand trembles. She has a disruptor gun, but she doesn't try to draw it—at this range, it's useless, and even discounting his experience Dahl's combat-oriented neuromods give him the advantage in duels.

“Apologies for underestimating you, Chief. I never thought you'd be the one abandoning all protocols in a crisis; I'm afraid I'm going to have to mention it in my report.”

Her eyes flick down to her wrist, bare of its tracking bracelet.

Then they meet his, suspicion drawing her face tight. She presses passed his nudge, saying, “You're not here to rescue people.”

“You heard the broadcast?”

“No, I ran out of air.” She casts a defeated glower towards the airlock as though betrayed. “This one was open, and I thought-”

“If there is a way out, it would have to be from here.”

'After what happened to the escape pods,' he doesn't add, though it hangs between them anyhow. One last 'fuck you' from the company, courtesy of Alex Yu.

“Who's left?”

“Alex.”

“ _Tch_. Of course.”

He doesn't mention Morgan. He's not certain as to why—there's little point in obscuring little things like truth at what's to be the end of her life. Could be a side effect of his infatuation with the original, the one demonstrably interested in women.

Chief Sho's brow furrows. Annoyance fades to horror as the seconds continue ticking by and Dahl's list remains one. One survivor.

He tuts in mock sympathy. “Not to worry. He's being taken care of by my associate as we speak.”

A wail echoes between them, the grief surprising them both as it overtakes her, tears sliding down her cheeks, breaths coming in brutal sobs. She sniffles. She whimpers. She howls, folding over herself, shaking arms planted on her knees to keep from toppling over. Everyone's dead.

Dahl isn't completely heartless. Her display has guilt pooling in his chest. It hurts.

But he's going to kill her anyway.

Chief Sho's body thuds. He'd given her no chance to recover, and no chance to fight. Little sport in a traumatized techie.

A minute or five later, Morgan traipses up to where Dahl's stood, peering curiously at their most recent casualty. He holds a transcribe in his hands, tapping away at the screen.

A robotic voice spouts from it, disturbingly similar to Morgan's own: “Are you well?”

Dahl frowns, unsure what he's getting at. He says as much.

“The nightmare. Danielle. They did not hurt you?”

“Obviously not. What are you doing with that thing?”

“It's Danielle's, funnily enough. I lost mine when January and I got into a fight.”

He assumes January is—was—an accomplice. More importantly: “You didn't answer my question.”

Morgan blinks. He's silent for a moment, considering, before tapping away once more. “I made neuromods to learn repair, and then I hacked into this and made the necessary modifications to speak to you through the synthesizer.”

“Right, because opening your damned mouth is so hard.”

“Yes.”

Dahl looks away, wrong-footed by the easy admission. Neither it nor the apparent weakness are things he'd expect from either version of Morgan Yu.

“Sorry,” he huffs, if only to get Morgan to stop _staring_ at him like that. It was an ableist taunt, certainly, and not a realm Dahl typically ventures to in expressing his caustic personality. He prides himself on slaughtering without prejudice.

Still. No one with a modicum of pride enjoys apologizing, 'specially to someone lacking moral high ground. They're murderers, for Christ's sake.

“You ready to head out yet?”

“Yes.”

“Finally.”

They take the lift. Walk to the bridge. Walk the bridge. Enter the shuttle. An anticlimatic finale.

Morgan grabs up a bucket of food, inviting himself to the passenger seat up front. Legs on the dash, feet tip-tip-tapping on the glass.

Meanwhile, Dahl runs the shuttle through the bare minimum flight checks for their departure to be authorized. The bay doors are still opening after he's plotted their course, leg pulsing with the engine as he waits to get them clear of this death trap and engage the auto. He wants to clean this gunk off of him. He wants to sleep.

He also wants to get paid, but he supposes the value of his own life will have to do; sometimes, jobs go sour. Simply the way of it.

Dahl adapts, as he's done a dozen times.

They're given the okay, and Dahl wastes no time guiding them out of the station and into the star-speckled void of space. In the distance he spots typhon loitering near the hull, peering in windows like voyeurs; he guides the shuttle far out of their notice, weapons primed all the same. Not that the very little armaments this thing's got could hope to do much. One blast, they're dead.

He ducks behind solar panels to dodge a weaver. Waits until the technopath trailing lazily behind follows it into the hull breach in Hardware Labs. Sweat beads on his temple, but he dare not take his hands from the controls to wipe it away. It dribbles down, threatening to fall into his eyes, as he skirts a cluster of cystoid nests on the far ring. Going up and around will pit them against the weaver loitering by a derelict shuttle, and going down could trigger a wandering telepath and its corrupted operator friends—maybe on loan, maybe a sign of a second technopath nearby.

Morgan reaches for his face, telegraphing his movements so as not to startle Dahl, and wipes the bead from his skin. His hand lingers, pressing at the thin protection evolution's afforded his skull, and by extension his brain. Dahl wonders how breakable he feels in the other's superhuman grip.

“Well done,” he praises once they've made it out. He finally removes his hand.

Dahl blinks at him, startled by the loss of contact despite himself. Morgan is smiling, though not unkindly. Not teasingly.

He thinks of imprinting and pack-bonding. There's no precedent for it in typhon, and they've interacted so little. But it might just be his lucky day.

Morgan looks away to type at his transcribe: “You're quite impressive. I didn't expect that.”

It's half an insult. Dahl blushes anyway, like a fucking schoolboy.

He shifts focus, glancing over the planned route one last time and locking the controls. The viewscreen cycles through 'til it's displaying a reflection of the cabin.

Dried, the black gunk looks worse. Like he's been overtaken by some kind of alien parasite. His eyes dart warily to Morgan's in the mirror, only to find himself already subject to the typhon's attention.

The assorted snacks get tossed uncaringly atop the dash.

Dahl scowls, averting his gaze to search the central console for a pack of sanitary wipes. A hand on his shoulder makes him tense, look up, and suddenly he's got a lap full of Morgan.

“Can I help you.”

Morgan laughs, that damnably-lovely smile cropping back up. Dahl's certain this is the moment's he's outlived his usefulness. This is the moment he dies. And still, in what's likely to be his final thought, Dahl thinks, ' _Fuck_ , _he's fucking gorgeous_.'

The transcribe drops to the floor. Morgan's now-free hand creeps up his neck, thumb and index finger tracing his strong jaw. Dahl expects this hand to crush his airway, or break his neck with a harsh yank. Neither happens. Morgan simply watches him, caressing his face and throat, straddling his thighs, pinning Dahl to the chair with a hand now resting contently upon his collarbone and a pair of eyes full of sly promise.

It takes him embarrassingly long to put the pieces together.

Dahl grabs Morgan's chin and pulls him down 'til they're breathing the same air. They're both already panting, simply from anticipation.

Then they kiss. Dahl wants to say there's nothing sweet about it, but underneath the lust is reflection and sameness and curiosity. It's blissful want and unflinching desire.

When they part for Dahl to breathe, Morgan whispers, “Can I keep you?”

He shudders; there is nothing human in this affection. Perhaps nothing human could give this to him.

So, Dahl nods.

He's exhausted, but the euphoria of cheating death ramps up his sex drive. How else would populations recover so quickly after disaster?

Evidently not one for preamble, Morgan strips his shirt and starts tugging on Dahl's clothes. Slapping his hands out of the way, Dahl struggles to get naked, and Morgan refuses to grant distance between them. Needless to say, it takes several frustrating, sweaty, _uncomfortable_ minutes, and at the end Dahl is exasperated to realize Morgan's trousers are still on. Unhelpful bastard.

“Don't want to fuck?”

Morgan's brows shoot up. Dahl means to take that as answer, some odd miscommunication with a guy even less human than he'd accepted him to be, when there's a hand. On his dick.

He gasps, Morgan smirks, and the hand on his dick coaxes blood down south alarmingly fast. As he hardens, the handjob grows tighter. Fingers tease his foreskin. Dahl grunts, nails digging into Morgan's forearm. Blind, he presses his mouth to Morgan's chin in silent request, and Morgan delivers. Dahl thinks he feels something pop as their kiss forces his neck to crane backwards.

His chest hurts from the thuds of his heart. Is it supposed to beat like that?

His legs begin to tremble, and Morgan pulls away, sliding nimbly off his lap despite Dahl's grasping hands.

But Dahl can't protest, for those destestable trousers and the boxers underneath are sliding off pale hips and down, down, down. And then he stoops, giving Dahl a delicious view of those muscled legs in action.

Dimly, he processes Morgan's rifling through his long-discarded suit, but his addled brain can't be interested in why until Morgan rises with his loot: lube from a medkit.

Dahl stares. Yes, there are plenty of G-rated applications useful on a dying station; he simply can't think of any right now.

Morgan sits high on the console, bare feet—when did he take off his shoes?—braced on the edge; a gorgeous display Dahl couldn't replicate. He sees all: his plump cock, heavy balls, the delicate flesh behind down to his hole. Taking him in, Dahl feels hazy, neurons lit up bright as a house on fire but feral as any street cat.

The lube squirts into Morgan's palm. He warms it between his fingers, and Dahl can't help but cup his cock for some form of relief. He's a princely piece of shit, but fuck if he isn't beautiful.

Those fingers circle his hole, teasing. It's Dahl who groans as one slips inside.

That said, Morgan finds his pleasure quickly. His mouth falls open, panting, slip of his pink tongue wetting his suddenly-dry lips; Dahl unconsciously mirrors him. Thighs shake. A second finger goes in.

Morgan whimpers, shifting uneasily. He immediately adds a third, and the mute Morgan Dahl escaped with vanishes. Moans, mewls, melodic cries of every kind pour out of him. The air is so stiflingly hot, even nude, Dahl feels he's melting into the faux leather of his seat. They've barely begun, and they're both sticky, sweaty messes.

Belatedly, Dahl realizes the cramped cabin leaves them close enough to touch. He thinks he would forget to breathe had it not been involuntary, so drowned in lust he is.

Morgan stops. His fingers pop out of him with a sound miserable to Dahl's ears, if only because he longs to fill the new vacancy between Morgan's legs with pieces of himself. He can't help but reach out, tracing the delicate bones of Morgan's foot in whisper-soft pets. For a moment, this leaves him content. He can want nothing else.

Then Morgan's free foot presses into his thigh scant inches from his dick, hard enough to bruise, and by grace of serendipity Dahl's overcome with similar impatience. Yet Morgan stands before he can, casting a telling, considering glance to the glass behind him.

(“What do you see? The shape in the glass?”)

From behind, he pushes into Morgan, their eyes meeting in the mirror. He's hot. Tight. Dahl bites harshly into the flesh of his shoulder, unprepared for Morgan to buck back with a strangled sound, taking him to the root—his teeth sink in deeper, and he groans around the taste of blood bursting on his tongue. The arm clutching Morgan from rib to shoulder joint may be leaving bruises. Dahl doubts he minds.

They fuck, hard and sweet, the both of them loud from their shared pleasure. Nightmare fluid smears on Morgan's skin. Morgan's hand digs fast at his hip, purpling the flesh, tearing the skin, grinding the bone. Dahl bites him again, right in that curve of shoulder and neck like a goddamn vampire.

Morgan's free hand is slapping the dash, erratic; Dahl's free hand wanders to his cock. The weight of it is delicious in his grasp, so much so saliva threatens to spill. Soft, silky. He craves the heaviness on his jaw, the salty taste to the pre-cum lubing this awkward handjob.

He thrusts harder. He watches Morgan snarl at nothing. Watches his teeth cut into his forearm, crimson dribbling down his chin. Dahl mouths at his vertebra, teasing further violence.

Morgan cums with a holler. Freeing Dahl's hip, his fists press to his own heaving chest, whole body gyrating. He's vibrating around Dahl, and Dahl can't resist his own release.

And then it's over. He wishes shuttles had showers.

He pulls out slow, wary of any pain Morgan may feel absent of sexual haze. Regret sits poised to overtake his heart, for he's unsure how Morgan will feel for him now. What does he expect? What does he want? Is _this_ the moment he's outlived his use? 'Can I keep you?' he asked, but what does that even mean?

Despite his screaming paranoia, Dahl's instincts urge calm. So, he doesn't react when Morgan finishes his contented stretching and turns, reaching for his scarred face.

Morgan kisses him.


End file.
